The Mariner

Grace, shivering despite the coat Harris had wrapped around her, spotted another welcoming abode, this time entitled ‘Robin’s Cave’. In fact, as they looked around, they realised the village was made up of nothing but inns, all lit up, some quiet and grim, whilst through the windows of others, large crowds could be seen, drinking to the tune of mercenary bards.

“We’re spoilt for choice!”

“How about that one then?” Grace was pointing down an alley to their left. Other than the main sign reading ‘The Drunken Pigeon’, was a secondary one claiming ‘the Best Fish and Chips — Guaranteed!’ Eager to get out of the cold air, the decision was unanimous, and they dashed as one, soaked to the bone by rain and sea-spray.

The door opened to a wide bar, decorated with soft chairs and the pungent smell of spilt beer. Several travellers were sat in the corners drinking from steins. They looked up, but didn’t seem surprised to see such a large crowd entering and returned to their private conversations, muttered secretly over frothy ale. The focal point of the room was the bar itself, with a plump and tough looking woman standing behind, chewing on a cold chicken leg, the grease about her lips looking like thick lip-gloss in the light from the nearby fireplace. She eyed them with a mixture of contempt and boredom. “Not enough room for you all. Got room for eight. Rest of you try next door, they’ve got spares.”

Harris, pulling rank, ushered most of Mavis’ followers back out the door into the rainy street to try elsewhere, whilst Heidi spoke with the publican, haggling over the price of rooms. The landlady seemed pleased with the boxes of shotgun cartridges offered and opened a draw containing keys.

“Food’s not included. Pay for a second night or be out by daybreak. No smoking or drinking unless in the bar. I’ve got enforcers if there’s trouble,” she added, glaring at the Mariner above the rest.

“We’ll be gone early tomorrow,” he said in similarly hostile tones, though his decision was quietly (yet hotly) dissented by Grace, who tugged at his jacket. “Can we get to the moors from here?”

“Of course you can,” the woman’s eyes narrowed even further, until they were tiny coin slots. “Everyone does.”

“Get lots going up there, huh?” Harris asked as he returned to the bar, the din of rain on stone vanishing the moment the door swung shut.

“A fair number, yeah.” The woman shrugged, non-committed, and though her body did its best to remain nonchalant, her eyes shrank further to tiny dark craters on an enormous fleshy planet. In the corner, her other patrons had stopped their discussion and were listening intently.

“It’s their first time,” Heidi said loudly enough for their eavesdroppers to hear. “I’m taking them up there.”

“Never been myself,” the woman muttered, still appraising them. “Don’t much want to, got all I need right here.” With that she slammed the keys down on the counter and sauntered off, as if to serve some other patrons, though of course all the custom her business could handle were gathered right in front of her.

Heidi suggested that they do their best to dry off, a concept widely agreed upon. Soon a light cloud of steam was rising from their damp bodies as they gathered around the fire, shivering despite the warmth. Not long later, Harris bartered for a round of strong spirits ‘to shake off the rain’, though McConnell snatched Grace’s before she had a chance to try it.

“You’re too young for such things,” he scolded as if the drink were a terrible and destructive sin, though still he held onto the beverage for himself. He lifted the glass to his lips and sipped, wincing as the heat hit his throat. He looked to the Mariner, who was already eagerly supping at his. Ever since they’d topped up supplies at the Beagle, the Mariner had kept himself in an almost permanent inebriated state. Not so much as to be unable to function, but never totally sober. McConnell didn’t know if that was something to be concerned about or not. Best to worry about other things than the personal habits of such a dubious man. “So tomorrow we head up onto the moors, and then what?”

“We find him.”

And that was that. It seemed no-one wanted to dwell upon the mysteries of what lay ahead, least of all those who seemed to be making the decisions for the rest. So instead, McConnell began to sing in a voice little more than a whisper competing with the fire’s own crackling song. The song was one of melancholy, a mixture of English and Eastern European dialect. The tune was received with bafflement, none recognising the strange mix.

“They used to sing it in Sighisoara. I hadn’t heard it before…” McConnell waved his hands in disdain. “… all this. I lived in Croydon back then. Such different times, before the Shattering.”